We Are More
by Lt. Basil
Summary: (Formerly "Just Marching Far Away"). The Kaminoans called them property. The Republic called them weapons. Krell called them numbers. But what are they, really? The clones of Riot Company want answers. The problem is, no one around will listen. One-shot series, focusing on a company of clones serving under Krell. Rated for violence, suicide, self-harm and mental instability themes.
1. Just Marching Far Away

**A/N: Hello, fellow Clone Wars fans!**

 **A large majority of the credit for the inspiration of this story goes to my awesome sister, Eregnar (don't tell her I called her that – she'll never stop teasing me about it), who came up with her own OC clone battalions that brought about the creation of my own… and whose main OC Jedi, Teneil Ura, is the apprentice of Pong Krell and has suffered major anxiety problems due to that.**

 **The two clones that are the focus of this fic are also my two main OCs (aside from my own Jedi general, Rens Phalco), so if I decide to dig further into these characters you will be seeing quite a lot from these two. If you've read my Clone Wars/Rebels crossover,** _ **Remnants,**_ **you should recognize one of them :)**

 **Enjoy!**

Uncontrollable sobbing was not a common sound onboard General Pong Krell's flagship. So where were those cries – so heartbroken and, honestly, borderline hysterical – coming from?

Baron turned into another hall, looking around wildly for the source of the noise. It echoed worse than ever in here, so the young pilot knew that whoever it was had to be hiding behind one of the adjacent doors. The only question was which one.

Gritting his teeth, Baron ran a shaking hand through his close-cropped black hair, his bright brown eyes flicking from one door to the next, struggling to pinpoint the sound's origin. It was driving him mad, and he knew that there was no way that he'd be able to get a decent night's sleep with the knowledge that one of his own brothers had locked himself up somewhere and was now crying his heart out. Everyone needed consolation right now (except for that shabuir that they were all forced to refer to as "general"), especially in the light of their legion's most recent battle. There'd been over two hundred casualties, three-quarters of which were fatalities. There were a lot of brothers who needed reassurance.

Another round of sobs echoed down the hall, and this time, Baron was able to locate the source. His eyes settled on the entrance to one of the many storage rooms to be found on the vessel, on his left, three doors up.

There.

Baron wasted no time. In five seconds flat he had crossed over to the door and was typing in the entry code. It opened with a _hiss_ , and he entered.

The sight he beheld stopped him cold.

Sandwiched between two crates, huddled into a ball with his back to him, was one of the most pitiful-looking figures that Baron had seen in his entire life. Though he couldn't see the man's face, he knew immediately that he was a brother – he had the same tall frame, dark skin and broad shoulders of every other clone trooper had ever met, though his longish hair was a vibrant red instead of the normal black (he'd most likely dyed it). His previously white armor was a mess, dented in multiple places and covered in dirt spots, scorch marks, and blood. His shoulders shook violently as he cried; loud, hacking, wheezing sobs that filled the room and made the pilot want to plug his ears.

Baron's heart gave a wrenching twist. The poor kid hadn't even bothered to clean up after the return to the ship. He'd probably been in here for hours, all alone with the dust and the memories. Judging by the clone's slighter build and the convulsive nature of his tears, he guessed he was one of the new shinies that had entered in just last week. Baron was willing to guess that all or almost all of the man's yearmates had been slaughtered down on the planet's surface. That was the story of almost every veteran clone in the legion (which, by the standards of Krell's soldiers, meant that they'd been there over three months. No one really lasted any longer than that… except for Baron, of course, who had somehow, miraculously lasted a good seven).

"Hey."

The man jumped, whipping around to stare at the person who had violated his privacy. Baron was shocked, to say the least, by his… unusual appearance. Upon closer inspection, the man's bright red eyebrows revealed that, shockingly, his hair was _not_ dyed – it was naturally that color. And his eyes, far from the typical golden or caf brown, were ice blue. Currently, they were also tinged with red, bloodshot as they were from his crying fit.

Baron stepped out of the shadow of the doorway, allowing the younger one to see him clearly. Suddenly nervous, the man snapped to attention upon seeing the blue paint decorating the pilot's armor, designating him as a lieutenant. Baron smiled to himself at the nervous energy that the shiny was displaying. _He's as twitchy as a feral Lothcat_ , he thought vaguely.

"Sorry," the trooper said quickly, with barely a tremble in his voice despite his previous breakdown. "I was just… taking stock of the dust bunnies." He flashed a weak smirk, though his watery eyes greatly downplayed the effect.

 _Ah. A joker,_ Baron thought grimly. Joker's never lasted long in Krell's legion. He always sent them out to be killed first. It was impressive that this one had even survived.

He purposefully ignored the shiny's casual greeting, even though it was a blatant breach of protocol. No doubt the man had heard enough of it from the general already, and anyway, it was neither the time nor the place to bring it up. The kid needed comfort, not a lecture.

Taking another purposeful step forward, he gestured to the empty spot directly in front of the shiny. "Mind if I join you?"

There was only a slight widening of the man's eyes at the prospect of sitting and being forced to converse with a higher-ranking trooper. He shrugged, muttered "sure", and sat again, the perfect picture of nonchalant composure. He watched silently as the lieutenant took a seat.

"This is an odd place for R and R," Baron remarked mildly, glancing around the storage closet with feigned interest. The shiny smirked slightly, just enough for Baron to know that that was what he was doing. He smirked back.

"What's your name, kid?" he asked quietly.

The shiny glanced down. "CT-5241," he muttered, fidgeting uncomfortably under his superior's scrutinizing gaze. Baron raised an eyebrow. Rolling his eyes, he clarified, "Sharp."

"And why do they call you that?" the pilot asked mildly. Sharp eyed him suspiciously.

"I'm a sniper," was all he said.

"A sniper. Huh." Baron nodded thoughtfully. "Makes sense, I guess."

Sharp stared hard at him, sizing him up, obviously attempting to figure out whatever ulterior motive the man had for coming in and addressing him. _Typical uptight shiny,_ Baron thought wryly, allowing a small smile to creep across his face. _When's he gonna learn that we don't all have an agenda?_

Sharp turned away slightly, just enough that Baron could no longer make sense of whatever facial expression he happened to be sporting at that moment. The kid had gone completely stiff, every aspect of his posture guarded and withdrawn, like he was afraid of Baron seeing something there that he didn't want him to know. The lieutenant had worked with shinies like this before – traumatized, confused and broken young men who wanted nothing more than to fade into the background in hopes that it might permit them to live just a few more weeks. How long ago had it been since he was one of them?

 _Seven months, actually._

"This your first time on the battlefield?" Baron asked gently. Sharp stiffened. He shook his head.

"Second," he replied, a little curtly.

"Ah."

Both fell silent, neither looking each other in the face as they lost themselves within their own minds. Baron couldn't help but wonder what exactly had happened to Sharp. This edgy, withdrawn, somewhat blunt specimen of a man was a sharp contrast to the crying boy that Baron had seen only minutes before. Sharp certainly wasn't crying now, instead tapping an odd rhythm on the floor next to him. The sniper's eyes held a glazed look to them as he stared at a point somewhere to his left, expertly ignoring Baron. The lieutenant wasn't sure what to think, let alone say.

Luckily, he didn't have to.

"Why does the general hate us so much?" Sharp asked bitterly. His hands clenched into fists on his lap. The anger in his eyes was so palpable that Baron felt a twinge of nervousness in his gut.

"All we ever do is follow his orders," Sharp continued bitterly. "So why in _haran_ does he treat us like this?!"

Baron sighed heavily. "I don't know." Sharp turned to look at him, the anger fading from his expression. Baron shrugged helplessly. "I just don't know."

A brief, tense silence stretched between them.

"I hate him," Sharp muttered finally, glaring at the floor. "He sent my entire squad out ahead as cannon fodder, like they didn't even matter. It was like… like he didn't even consider them _human_!" His voice trembled with suppressed fury. Baron reached forward and clasped the man's shoulder.

Sharp met his gaze, his ice blue eyes burning with mixed anger, hatred and grief. Baron understood what he was going through all too well. How many times had he had those same thoughts about the General? But it wasn't like there was anything that either of them could do about it. It was their duty to stand and fight for Krell, no matter how horribly he treated them, no matter how much they despised them, and no matter what their thoughts on the morality (or lack thereof) of his actions happened to be.

Duty. Oh, how Baron hated that word.

"I understand," he told him quietly. Sharp looked at him questioningly. "When I first got here, he sent all of the fighters at his disposal up against one of the Sep's most heavily-armed battle cruisers. I was one of only five men to come out of that attack alive."

Sharp was silent for a moment. Then: "Did you win?"

Baron snorted. "Technically yes, thought I'd hardly call it a victory when we had more casualties than the seps did," he remarked sourly. "But I guess that's just war for you. Nothing _ever_ makes any sense."

Sharp shrugged. He probably hadn't seen enough of the war yet to either agree or disagree with that statement.

"But listen," Baron continued gently. "Do you know that one old Mandolorian saying? The one that they use at funerals?" Sharp shook his head. Smiling, the lieutenant continued. "None of the brothers that we lose are gone. They're just marching far away."

Sharp's face was filled with skepticism. "Watch it, sir," he remarked dryly. "You almost sound like a Jedi, there."

Baron grinned. "Well, maybe the Jedi are onto something," he replied. "Anyway… thinking that always helps _me_ after a battle. Just something to consider." He slapped Sharp amiably on the shoulder. "Now, if you'll excuse me, I've got a briefing to attend in a few hours. It's probably best not to miss it."

He stood up and turned to go. But before he could so much as open the door, Sharp's voice stopped him.

"You never told me your name, sir," he remarked.

The pilot glanced back. "It's Baron."

Sharp hesitated, gnawing on his lip. Baron turned away again.

"Do you think it'll ever be over for us, Baron?" he asked quietly. Sighing, the officer rested his hand on the cold durasteel surface of the storage room door.

"I wish I knew, Sharp," he said tiredly. "I wish I knew…"

" _Not gone – just marching far away."_ – Mandolorian saying.

 **Reviews are appreciated.**


	2. Warning Signs

**A/N: I said I was going to make this a oneshot. I changed my mind.**

 **Updates will be sporadic.**

 **Enjoy.**

General Krell was on Jack's case again.

Sharp felt a flush of anger run through him as the Jedi berated his brother, his cruel yellow eyes blazing and his cracked grayish-green lips drawn back in a snarl. Jack fixed his gaze directly at his toes; his dark skin was tinged an infuriated red. Pity flowed through Sharp in rivers – it was the only emotion in him that even came _close_ to the fury that he felt towards that shabuir of a Besalisk who seemed to be under the impression that because he carried a lightsaber (or rather, two double-bladed lightsabers) meant that he was allowed to treat all of his underlings like cannon fodder.

"You're deficient, CT-6292!" Krell was bellowing, jabbing a beefy, sausage-like finger at Jack's armored chest. "If I had my way I'd send you back to the lab in a heartbeat! Now you had better sharpen up – or else!"

Jack flinched at every venomous word, occasionally muttering a hushed "yes sir", or "sorry sir" and never meeting the general's gaze. Sharp bared his teeth, wishing that he could just grab one of Krell's saberstaffs and stick it up his… ahem.

Standing a little ways off to the left, with her normally brown flesh tone fading to a dull gray to match the durasteel wall she was leaning up against, was General Teneil Ura. Even camouflaged as she was, Sharp could see the distressed furrow of her brows, that awful mix of fear, pity and anger staining her brown eyes. She was hugging herself, keeping her gaze purposely averted from the scene in front of her.

Sharp narrowed his eyes. His gaze constantly flicked between the three of them, analyzing each in turn. Krell was still ranting at Jack, seemingly coming up with a list of flaws out of the blue to accuse the man of. Ura's fingernails dug into her skin. She stayed quiet.

That sniper had hoped that she would've spoken up by now, attempting to quell her old master's rage against the clone, but it was now obvious that the young woman would do no such thing.

 _Coward,_ he thought bitterly. _How do your troops stand to be around you?_

Krell was still yelling. "You're _weak_ , clone! Pathetic! What do you think you're – "

"Leave him alone!"

Three sets of eyes turned their focus on Sharp. He didn't care. Seething, he glared daggers at Krell.

"It was one mistake!" Sharp snapped (referring to the matter which had initiated Krell's tirade against Jack in the first place – no, I am not going to clarify). " _One!_ We all make them, but you're acting like he… he assassinated the Supreme Chancellor, or something! Just ease up, for once in your frakking life!"

Krell scowled. Stepping away from Jack (whose eyes had grown huge with terror upon realizing what his brother was doing), he stood to tower over Sharp. His yellow eyes burned into him, furious.

"CT-5241, you're out of line."

"My _name_ is _Sharp_ ," the clone responded savagely. He didn't know how he dared. "And you're the one who's out of line, _sir_."

Krell's eyes flashed. He pointed a beefy finger at Sharp's face threateningly. "I'd watch that tone of yours if I were you, _clone_ ," he sneered. "The sentence for mutiny is death."

"So it's mutiny to keep you from torturing my brother?" Sharp shot back heatedly. Out of the corner of his eyes, he saw Ura cringe. He didn't care.

Krell looked like he was about to respond, but Sharp cut him off abruptly. "One of these days, your treatment of us clones is going to come back and bite you," he snarled. "And I'm gonna be there when it does."

Or at least, he _hoped_ he would be.

"Come on, Jack, let's go," he said, turning to his brother. And with that, he turned heel and stormed out of the room, pausing only long enough to make sure that his brother was following.

XXX

On most days, Sergeant Sharp liked General Teneil Ura. She was overall fairly considerate of the clones, sharply contrasting with her old master and Sharp's Jedi general, Pong Krell. Unlike him, she called them by their names, not their numbers, and encouraged them more often than she lectured. He own battalion, the 229th, liked her very much.

Today, however, was not most days.

He'd left Jack with Baron back in the mess hall, informing his two friends that he wanted to have a word with the good general. They'd been horrified by the notion. They thought he meant Krell.

Honestly, though, he wasn't _that_ stupid. Really.

He found her in the communications room, conversing in low tones with her second-in-command, Commander Blaze. Sharp noted that he brown-pigmented skin was tinged with a few traces of blue. If the other clone noticed it, he gave no sign.

Sharp approached the duo and cleared his throat. Both fell silent. They turned their attention away from the display that they had been analyzing to focus on him. He resisted the urge to cross his arms and raise his eyebrows.

"General, may I have a word?" he said evenly, struggling to push down the suffocating rage building up inside of him.

After a beat, Ura nodded. Bidding farewell to the commander, she rose and followed Sharp out.

He managed to move fifty meters down the hall before he exploded.

"What in _haran_ was that?!" he snarled, whirling around to glare at the Jedi. She blinked.

"…What was what?" she asked cautiously.

Sharp bared his teeth. "You know kriffin' well what!" he snapped. She stared at him. He threw up his hands. "Krell. Jack. You standing by and doing _nothing_ about it!"

Teneil's skin flushed blue and purple. She averted her eyes. "I… I…"

"What?" Sharp demanded. "You _what?!_ "

"I can't… change his mind…"

"Ossik!" he snarled. "You were his student. You should've talked him out of it!"

Her skin flushed an even deeper purple. "I can't," she choked out.

"Oh? And why is that?"

Sharp was startled to see the general's eyes flood with tears. She covered her mouth with her hand, making a sound that was dangerously close to a sob.

It was then that he realized. His face softened.

"You're afraid of him," he murmured. "Aren't you?"

She nodded mutely, still choking back tears.

Rage evaporating quicker than it had appeared, Sharp wilted. His shoulders slumped and his eyes locked onto the floor. He sighed heavily.

"I'm sorry, sir," he whispered. "I was out of line."

Ura wiped her nose. "It's okay," she croaked. Her voice was hoarse from her tears. After a beat, she added, "I'm just… gonna go now…" She turned away, furiously scrubbing at her swollen eyes.

She hadn't even made it five meters before Sharp's voice stopped her in her tracks. "Krell is no hero, General." She said nothing. "One of these days, he's going to do something so drastic that you can't just turn a blind eye to it," Sharp continued gravely. "Are you ready to deal with that?"

Teneil hesitated only a moment. Briefly, she glanced back, her brown eyes locking with his blue. Sharp didn't miss the despair within hers.

The general left without a word.

 **Star Wars and Pong Krell belong to LucasArts and Disney. Teneil Ura and Commander Blaze belong to my sister, Eregnar. Everyone else belongs to me.**


	3. Nameless

**A/N: I claim no ownership to Krell, the clone troopers, or TCW. I do claim ownership to the characters of the two clones that show up in here.**

 **Review (please) and above all, enjoy.**

A cannon blast sounded to the young clone's right, and his best brother dropped.

CT-9563-24 watched in horror as CT-6752 crumpled into a heap, his scrubby white armor melting from the heat of the shot. 24's knees buckled. Collapsing beside his brother's still form, he turned him over onto his back and wrestled his helmet off of his head.

52's face was deathly pale. Blood leaked out of the corner of his mouth. His brown eyes flicked around wildly, seemingly unable to focus on any one thing. He was also hyperventilating.

Oblivious to the pitched battle raging around them, 24 grasped his brother's trembling shoulder. "C'mon, 52, stay with me…" he choked. "Don't you dare die on me…"

52 gave a weak cough. "H-hurts…"

Tears flooded 24's eyes. "I know it hurts, but…" he drew in a shuddering breath "…you need to hang in there, _vod_."

52's gaze was glassing over. "H-hurts… have to stop… the pain… the nightmares, brother, they're…" He coughed up a large clot of blood. 24 flinched. "I've gotta… gotta…" He trailed off. His body went limp.

24's throat closed up. "…52?" His brother gave no answer. Frantic, 24 shook his roughly. "52! Carter! _Carter!_ "

But 52 didn't move.

24 no longer cared that they were in the middle of a battle. He didn't care that the path was choked full of droid forces. He didn't care that any one of them could take a potshot at his head without him being able to stop it.

All he cared about was the body that lay dead in front of him.

24 doubled over, sobs wracking his shuddering body. 52… his best brother, and the only other survivor from his old training squad… was dead. _No_ , he thought bitterly, scrubbing at his leaking eyes. _52 isn't dead._ Carter _is dead._

Carter… that had been his name once, back before Krell took it away. The general frowned upon the use of names among the ranks. They were weapons to him, with no more individuality than a DC-17 rifle. To Krell, they were just numbers. Expendable. Unimportant.

Nameless.

Some of the clones still referred to themselves by their names, stubbornly rebelling against the general's abuse. But not 24. Not Carter.

Carter had gone back to being 52.

And 24… he'd had a name once as well. A good name. A proud one.

But that part of him was gone. And now, with his brother dead on the ground, there was no reason to ever even _try_ to bring it back.

24 felt a searing pain strike the back of his shoulder. Crying out, he fell backwards, clutching the wound and trying not to full-out scream. He did so just fine. He'd long ago become accustomed to pain. Biting his lip, 24 kept the sound from bursting out of his throat.

He saw the droid approach him, its blaster trained on his head. He saw its metallic fingers squeeze the trigger. He saw the beam of green light come racing towards his neck.

Right before the shot hit, he remembered.

 _My name…was Rupture…_

The blast connected, and the image vanished.

But Rupture's consciousness did not.

A warm light surrounded him, engulfing his trembling body. Smiling sadly, Rupture close his eyes… and let himself go.

 _I'm coming, brother._


	4. Over the Edge

**A/N: WARNING: Suicide themes, self-harm, psychosis, and other such angst.**

 _From the journal of Doctor Hestia Rae, Elysium medical station:_

Doctor's log: Day 36: 14:23 Galactic Standard Time

I am concerned for the psychological wellbeing of one of my patients. CT-8611 has displayed a number of erratic behaviors since he arrived last week – including, but not limited to, panic attacks, night terrors, violent fits of rage, excessive rambling and suicidal tendencies. Just this morning, he attempted to stab one of the other patients in the eye with a fork when said patient grabbed his shoulder suddenly. It took three seasoned ARCs to restrain him while his victim was wheeled off to get the gouges on his cheek treated. Las Ren has informed me that another incident like this will result in 11's reconditioning, despite the protests of myself and the other doctors attending to him.

A psychological analysis of the patient has revealed a critically severe case of post-traumatic stress disorder, manic depression, severe anxiety and antisocial behaviors. Though a test has not yet been run concerning them, I believe that he may also be suffering from visual and auditory hallucinations – but as of yet, this is pure speculation. I _do_ know that these suicidal behaviors he is displaying are not common among clone troopers (due, no doubt, to the unusually strong survival instincts which the Kaminoans have written into their genetic code). It raises some questions as to what factors have driven 11 to this point.

Doctor Rand believes that 11 is a lost cause, but I am not willing to give up on him just yet. With proper care, I am confident that he can still be brought up to par, if only that stupid Kaminoan will give him the chance.

XXX

Doctor's log: Day 39: 15:35 Galactic Standard Time

Patient CT-8611 attempted to slit his wrists with a shard of glass that he found in the mess this morning. One of the other patients managed to get it away from him before he could hurt himself, but the question remains as to what triggered this outburst in the first place. He has not shown any such behaviors for several days – what, then, could have initiated it?

The clone who saved him, CT-6292, has informed me that CT-8611 is not the first in his legion to demonstrate such behaviors. 92 has claimed that in his time serving alongside 11, five or six other troopers has fallen victim to similar states of psychosis – and these are only the ones in which the illness was obvious. He also claimed that only one of them was treated successfully. Whether or not these claims have merit is another matter, and I fully intend to look into this. I'm not about to give up on him.

XXX

Doctor's log: Day 44: 19:30 Galactic Standard Time

A routine checkup of patient CT-8611 has unearthed an alarming discovery. A preliminary analysis of the skin on 11's arms has shown us the presence of numerous cuts and lacerations all along the length of the limb, none of which were there when he arrived here two weeks ago. These slices appear to have been caused by a razor blade or other such sharp metal instrument. A search of the patient's meager personal effects has yielded no sign of such an object in his possession – nevertheless, a fourth in-depth search of the patient's room is scheduled for this evening around 2100 hours.

I recently contacted 11's commanding officer, one General Krell, for information regarding CT-8611's overall mental health. I had hoped that Krell could help me identify the cause of the psychological damage on the trooper; however, the general was less than cooperative, stating, and I quote, that "issues of mental health cannot apply to CT-8611 as clone troopers have no real minds to begin with". This response is troubling at best, and potentially incriminating at worst. If that is Krell's opinion of clone troopers in general, then 11's condition is hardly surprise.

I will investigate this matter further when I have the time. No Jedi general will be permitted to traumatize _my_ patients, if I have anything to say about it!

XXX

Doctor's log: Day 48: 17:06 Galactic Standard Time

An examination of the last year's medical logs has provided me with some vital information. Over the past standard year, this station has treated approximately 243,000 injured clone troopers. Of those 243,000, 32 have displayed psychological damage/disorders at the same or near the same intensity as CT-8611's. Of those 32, 25 have been from Krell's unit – and of those 25, only 3 recovered enough to return to active service. Of the remaining twenty-two, twelve took their own lives and ten were reconditioned.

I presented this evidence to Las Ren in the hope of him permitting an investigation on Krell, but the Kaminoan refused to do anything about it. It is almost as if he _wants_ my patient dead.

Meanwhile, CT-8611's condition continues to worsen, with no sign of recovery anytime soon. I fear that if Ren continues to refuse action, we may lose him after all.

XXX

Doctor's log: Day 51: 6:51 Galactic Standard Time

CT-8611's body was found hanging from the ceiling of his room at 0330 this morning. Apparently, he tied his bed sheets together into a noose and looped it over the edge of a shelf in his room, hoisting it up and snapping his neck in the process. His brothers requested that his body be given to them to deal with in their own way, but Las Ren has denied them this small action. 11 has been sent off to be dissected, his organs harvested for transplant purposes, after which his remains are to be incinerated.

My requests on launching an investigation concerning Krell continue to be denied, and with 11 gone it seems unlikely that either the Senate or the Jedi Council will heed anything I have to say on the matter, anyway, without the evidence provided by my patient's condition. If this is how the Republic treats those who are meant to protect it, do I really want any part of it? I ask for time and I am rejected. I ask for justice and receive a rebuttal. If this is how Republic soldiers are treated, what will happen to the civilians? How far will this go?

I can do no good to anyone floundering under these regulations like some pathetic little puppet. If I want to help clones like CT-8611 in the future, I may have to take matters into my own hands.

I will present Ren with my resignation tomorrow. It's time for me to help these boys on my own terms, and no self-righteous Kaminoan overlord or verbally abusive Jedi General is going to stop me.


	5. Contrast (pt 1)

**A/N: Soooo… I wasn't sure if I should put this one down right away or not, but I had it written, so what the heck. Wow. 1 ½ months since I last updated. That's actually pretty good, considering my track record :)**

 **FYI, this particular segment is gonna take several chapters (hence the "part 1" there at the top). I might break it up with other chapters in between, but not necessarily.**

 **Anyway, enjoy.**

Sharp hated silence.

Silence was the sound of returning home with less than half of the men that you'd left with. Silence was the sound of the corpses of fallen brothers on the battlefield after another one of Krell's crazy "full frontal assault on the heavily guarded sep base" attacks. Silence was the interior of a drop ship when they were all headed off on yet _another_ suicide mission.

Silence was death.

It was also Krell's favorite sound.

The company stood in silence, waiting patiently for General Phalco's welcoming committee to receive them. General Krell stood at front (for once), all four arms crossed over his chest. His erect posture and the iciness of his gaze sent out a clear message; _he_ was in charge, and _no one_ was allowed to challenge him.

Sharp had to struggle to keep himself from glowering at the Besalisk. Everyone knew that he had an exceptionally large amount of hatred for that Jedi. They clashed constantly, disagreeing on everything – and while the sniper had never gone far enough to merit a mutiny charge, his constant presence as a thorn in Krell's side had earned him some grueling punishments over the six months that he'd been operating under him. All of his brothers knew it. Most of them kept their distance from him to avoid getting caught in the crossfire. Sharp was fine with that.

A movement on the far side of the forested clearing caught Sharp's eye. Finally tearing his gaze away from his general, the sniper focused in on the three distant figures emerging from the tree line. He narrowed his eyes. Three clones with violet-accented phase 2 armor were approaching them from the forest's edge. One of them had a large receiver sticking off the top of his helmet and a deep purple pauldron attached to his right shoulder. Another had a red medic's symbol emblazoned on his left forearm. The third had a special combat visor clipped onto his helmet.

The trio trudged forward determinedly, looking very derelict, to be perfectly honest. Their armor was dented and smudged with dirt and soot and blood and _who knows_ what else. Their gait was slow, as if all of the energy had just drained out of them.

Nevertheless, when they reached Krell, all three snapped into smart salutes.

"Sir!" the lead clone (the one with the pauldron) said, standing up straight despite his obvious exhaustion. "Captain Mech, 323rd legion, sir!"

Krell curled his lip. "I know perfectly well who you are, CC-3562," he sneered.

Mech faltered, his hand moving slightly out of position on his forehead. Confusion flitted across his face.

"Uh… sir?"

"Relax, Mech, Krell's just got a stick so far up his butt that he can't tell the difference between a clone trooper and a blaster pistol," a new, feminine voice piped up.

Sharp jumped, his eyes flicking slightly to the left to find the source of the sound. His eyes widened.

A tall, dark-haired young woman approximately Sharp's physical age had crept up behind the three newcomers while they'd all been talking. The loose-fitting gray-and-white robes she was decked in and the lightsaber on her right hip indicated her to be a Jedi. Her skin was darker than his, approximately the shade of pure cinnamon, and her wavy black hair was tied back at the nape of her neck. Like the clones, she was covered in soot and grime – but unlike them, she didn't look tired at all. She was grinning broadly, with one hip cocked to the left and her eyes – a startlingly bright purple color – twinkling with an impish light that reminded him of his old training sergeant.

Sharp couldn't help but stare. And he wasn't the only one – Jack's pose suggested that he was gaping like a fish.

The woman came up to stand next to Mech, slapping his shoulder in camaraderie. Krell's eyes narrowed. She ignored him, instead glancing to the side as another clone trooper, with armor additions very similar to Mech's, came up beside her.

"Phalco," Krell sneered, curling his lip.

The newcomer turned and scowled at him. "Hello, Krell," she said icily. "I take it all of the decent generals were busy?"

Sharp gaped at her. Not even _he_ had ever dared to talk to Krell like that. He'd never actually blatantly _insulted_ the general before – even Sharp had his limits. But Phalco didn't look one bit concerned by the murderous expression on the Besalisk's face. On the contrary, she was… smirking?

Krell opened his mouth to spit out a scathing retort, but the woman had already turned her back on him to face Sharp and the rest of the legion.

"My name is Rens Phalco," she called out, all of her previous smugness replaced by an authoritative, businesslike tone. "I'm the head of the 323rd clone battalion."

She stood erect, crossing her arms over her chest and looking over all of them with a piercing gaze. Sharp noted the difference between the way that she held herself and the way that Krell did. Phalco was not looking down on them, but straight at them, studying them with obvious interest. All of Krell's infuriated mutterings were expertly ignored.

Sharp decided right then that he liked this woman.

Phalco gestured to the soldiers on either side of her. "This is Commander Rancor – " the other newcomer nodded, " – and Captain Mech. These are lieutenants Zach – " she gestured to the medic, " – and Sketch." The last clone raised his hand lazily.

The expression in her eyes intensified as she looked over the entirety of Riot Company. "I don't know how much information you have on the situation here, so if you'll just follow us, we'll explain when we get back to base." With a terse nod to Krell, Rens gestured to her own soldiers and turned back towards the tree line. "Move out!"

The entire company fell into step behind the general's retreating back. As they entered into the shade of the forest, Sharp exchanged a glance with Jack. He knew right away that they were thinking the same thing.

 _Who the kriff is this woman?_

 **END PT 1**

 **The "contrast" arc is going to span at least three chapters, and more likely four or five. I may or may not cut in between it with other chapters on different matters, just to warn you.**

 **DISCLAIMER: While Krell is the only character in this chapter that I don't own, I still don't own Star Wars: The Clone Wars and can** _ **only**_ **take credit for the characters of these clones and Rens**

 **P.S. Rens is actually the OC that I have fleshed out the best, she just hasn't got a lot of screentime. At some point I'll probably write a multi-chap fic going over her backstory, so if you're interested in seeing more of Rens Phalco, watch for that.**

 **Tell me what you think!**


	6. Contrast (pt 2)

**A/N: I know, I know, it's been forever since I updated, I'm sorry. Life is rough when you're just finishing up high school, and the writer's block didn't help, but hey - I've got some new stuff now, so that's something, right? Yes? No?**

 **This chapter is kind of short, but when I tried to add to it it just didn't work so I'm just gonna stick with it. The next one is significantly longer, though, don't worry.**

 **Anyway, Contrast pt. 2.**

 _Baron's lungs were on fire. His legs were shaking. His forehead was drenched in sweat. Breathing hard, he tried to spur his legs to go faster. He could hear the sounds of battle raging around him - the harsh claps of blaster fire; the dull thumps and sharp cries of pain as his brothers were gunned down around him; the expressionless, mechanical drones of battle droids calling commands to each other. The air stank of blood, smoke and motor oil, intermixed with the heady scents of the forest they were fighting in._

 _A stinging, burning pain jolted through his left ankle, and he fell on his face, his momentum sending him skidding forward a few meters before stopping him at the foot of a felled tree. As the looming shadow of a battle droid fell over him, Baron remembered Krell's old mantra: "If you fall behind, you're left behind"…_

Baron rolled onto his back, staring up in terror at the thing leaning over him. It was a commando droid, black as night with a spindly body, wedge-shaped head and glowing yellow photoreceptors. A sniper rifle was clutched securely in its metallic claws, aimed at the center of the clone's forehead.

He squeezed his eyes shut. _This is it, it's the end, I'm going to die here like the rest of my squad -_

There was the sound of an energy weapon igniting nearby, a flash of yellow light beyond his closed eyelids, the sound of sparks and the clang of metal hitting the dirt. For a moment, all was silent. Baron was just starting to wonder why he wasn't dead yet when a woman's voice interrupted his thoughts.

"You alright there, soldier?"

Baron's eyes sprang open in shock. He found himself staring up at a pair of concerned violet eyes. The owner of said eyes was extending a grimy hand out to him, her other hand squeezed tightly around what looked like a yellow beam of light.

The pilot swallowed, accepting the offered hand and allowing General Phalco to pull him to his feet. He winced at the pain in his ankle as he gingerly put weight on it.

"I-I th-think so. Sir… uh, ma'am. Sir."

He mentally smacked himself. Yes, very eloquent.

"Th-thanks."

Kriff, what the haran was wrong with him?

Ignoring the clone's barely coherent stuttering, Phalco smiled warmly. "Rule number one," she said gently. "No one gets left behind."


	7. Contrast (pt 3)

**A/N: Two chapters just a few days apart huzzah! I can't remember the last time that happened. I should celebrate…**

 **I've got a slightly lighter one for you this time. I'm not sure what to think of this one, I feel like I have made Krell a little** _ **too**_ **vindictive but I don't think it's -** _ **that**_ **\- bad…**

 **Anyway, hope you enjoy.**

For days, Stitch had been up to his neck in the injured and dying, and he was close to reaching his limit.

The med tent had seen nothing but a steady stream of wounded ever since the 323rd arrived a week or so ago. The young medic had never seen so many casualties before in his life. Day in and day out it was the same - stitch up gashes, bind wounds, add a kolto patch here, some antiseptic there, do whatever possible to keep your brothers alive. And he was proud to do it, but you could only watch so many brothers die on the operating table before you needed a good long break.

It wouldn't have been so bad if Zach had been there to help him, Stitch reflected, dabbing Russ' face with a damp cloth, but he'd gone ahead with the general to meet the reinforcements, and none of the other medics (Stitch included) were anywhere near his calibre. Still, they'd have to make due, at least until the general got back…

 _Well, speak of the devil_ , there she was now.

Through the tent flap, Stitch could see General Phalco leading a rather large group of clones into the camp, with Rancor and Mech flanking her and Zach and Sketch walking a ways back, supporting another, unfamiliar clone in between them. The new group's General, Krell, was marching at the back of the group (it was hard to tell at this distance, but it looked like he was a Besalisk. Oh goody). Judging by the bedraggled look about them all, it was probably safe to say that they'd gotten into another skirmish on the way back. Stitch noticed a handful of makeshift stretchers among the crowd and inwardly groaned.

More wounded. Great.

Rens said a few words to the assembled crowd of clones (Stitch was two far away to hear it but he could guess that it boiled down to something like "briefing soon, be there on time") before gesturing to her own soldiers and turning to march into the camp.

Rancor and Mech broke off with two of the newcomers (probably some of Krell's higher-ranking officers) to go into the war tent, no doubt to explain the situation and discuss tactics. Sketch passed the clone he was helping off to Zach and made his way to the barracks. Rens and Zach supported said clone between them and headed off towards Stitch. The horde of stretchers followed behind them.

"How is he?" Rens asked quietly, sidling up next to Stitch to look at Russ. The injured clone twitched and groaned, but he was so pumped full of sedatives that he didn't wake.

Stitch sighed and set his cloth aside. "Not good," he croaked. "I've done what I can but…" He wagged his head tiredly. "It's not enough. It's never enough…" He clenched his fists until his knuckles had turned white.

Rens squeezed his shoulder. "You're doing fine," she whispered. "You can't save everyone."

He sighed. "I know."

A hand touched Stitch's arm, and he jumped. Zach had come up behind without him noticing. Glancing sideways, the younger clone looked at his brother quizzically.

"I'll look after Russ," the head medic told him. "One of Krell's boys got a fried left ankle. Think you can take a look?"

Stitch flashed Zach a grateful look and nodded, pulling away from both his brother and his general. Said injured clone was sitting across the tent, hunched over on a pile of crates massaging his injured limb with a grimace. The man was a typical-looking clone, with dark skin, short dark hair, a sturdy jaw and golden-brown eyes. He glanced around nervously, wetting his lips every now and then and obviously trying to look invisible (it wasn't working).

Stitch approached him cautiously, as if he were a skittish animal he was trying to coax out of hiding. The man's head snapped up. Hard brown eyes locked onto Stitch, who squirmed under the intensity of his gaze. The trooper watched his approach warily, unblinking, just sitting stock-still and staring hard as the younger one moved closer. The medic swallowed, forcing a smile.

"I need to take a look at that," he told the soldier patiently, gesturing to his wounded ankle. The soldier shook his head vigorously.

"It's not that bad," he stated. "I can still fight."

"Being able to fight doesn't always mean you should," Stitch replied calmly, plucking a bacta patch and some antiseptic out of a nearby crate. "Let me take a look."

"Look after the others first," his brother responded.

"The lieutenant is more than capable of looking after them," Stitch said patiently. "I'd just get in his way. Now let me look at that."

Begrudgingly, the soldier lifted his foot and let Stitch inspect his ankle.

Clearly this soldier didn't know anything about medicine, Stitch thought as he examined the man's limb, because it was so red and swollen that it was nearly impossible to get it out of his boot (and what was this armor made of, flimsiplast? It should've been able to protect him from a shot like that). The wound was an angry shade of scarlet and was oozing blood and pus all over the place. Bits of dirt and leaves were stuck in the wound, souvenirs from the forest just beyond the campsite.

Stitch wrinkled his nose and set to cleaning it, flushing out the grit with a small amount of fresh water and then wiping it down with antiseptic in order to prepare it for the bacta patch. His brother didn't complain, holding his leg still to let him work, unflinching, the strained expression on his face the only thing betraying the pain he was in. The medic admired his restraint - most of the other patients he'd worked with would be swearing and screaming in agony right about now.

Just as he was starting to apply the bacta, the soldier stiffened and sat bolt upright, his leg giving a violent jerk. Surprised, Stitch dropped the patch. He scowled and started to turn to fetch a new one, but paused when he noticed his patient staring, terrified, at the empty entrance to the tent.

"What are you looking at?" he asked, trying to keep the irritation out of his voice. The soldier didn't answer, simply staring at the doorway with a terrified expression on his face. "Listen, I'm going to need to ask you to please _relax_ and-"

" _Shh!_ " the patient snapped, not tearing his eyes away from the tent flap. Startled by the outburst, Stitch fell silent.

For a few moments, nothing happened.

Then General Krell entered the tent.

If Stitch had thought that Krell looked big from a distance, it was nothing compared to how he looked up close. Standing at over seven feet tall, the Besalisk had four beefy arms, leathery green-grey skin, sickly yellow eyes that seemed to stare straight into the young man's soul, and a coarse goatee that only served to make his savage face even more alarming. He could fully understand why his patient seemed so terrified of him - he was _intimidating_.

Krell looked around for all of three seconds before his gaze settled on Stitch and his patient. Scowling hard, the Jedi stormed over to them.

"Lieutenant!" he barked (Stitch's patient flinched and looked away). "What are you doing sitting around?"

The soldier muttered something incoherent into his lap. Krell's eyes narrowed.

"What was that?" he demanded (it was Stitch's turn to flinch, though he kept his gaze locked on the general).

The lieutenant winced but said, a little louder, "I was hurt in the fight and General Phalco said -"

"General Phalco said?" Krell sneered. The lieutenant shied back, terrified. " _General Phalco_ said? Need I remind you that _I_ am your commanding officer, CT-5122?"

The clone shook his head vigorously.

Krell curled his lip. "Good." He took a step closer to the lieutenant. Said lieutenant shied back a few centimeters, looking terrified. "I expect you up and back to work in an hour."

Mortified at Krell's aggression, Stitch stood up and placed himself between the clone and the Besalisk, putting his hand out defensively.

"General," he protested, "this man has an infection. He's going to need a few days to let it clear up -"

"Be quiet!" Krell roared. Stitch fell into a stunned silence. The general pointed a beefy, green finger at his face. "You don't tell me how to handle my own troops, clone," he snarled, gold eyes flashing. Stitch shrank back in fear.

"Is there a problem here?"

All three people jumped at the new voice. Lieutenant Zach had come up to stand behind Krell and was now looking over the scene curiously. His brows were drawn together as he gave them all a once-over. Krell sneered.

"Don't interfere," he growled. "This matter does not concern you."

Zach snorted derisively, leaning against a nearby crate and crossing his arms over his chest. "Considering that you're threatening a patient and one of my top medics, yes it does."

"Don't talk back to your superiors. clone!" Krell growled.

"You're not _my_ superior," Zach retorted, standing up straight. "General Phalco is. And I'm the head medic. I outrank everyone." He gave the general a cold stare. "Even you."

Stitch watched the exchange cautiously, eying all parties carefully. Krell's eyes were bugged out in fury, his massive hands clenched into fists and his teeth drawn back in a snarl. The injured lieutenant was still cowering in his seat, curled up as close to himself as he could manage in his armor while his ankle was injured. And Zach was just standing there calmly, cool as a cucumber under the general's harsh glower, only a slight furrowing of his brows indicating the anger that he was holding back. Stitch had never felt so proud of the man before that moment. Now he was so pleased he would've happily hugged him if he thought that he could get away with it.

"How dare you?" Krell hissed, eyes flashing. Zach's expression remained neutral. "I am in charge here and I _said_ -!"

"With all due respect, sir -"

"I am _talking!_ "

"AND I'M NOT LISTENING!"

Silence. Clone and Jedi glared at each other, the former breathing heavily and glaring daggers at the latter. The tension in the air made Stitch's hair stand on end. Behind him, his patient was surreptitiously scooting away from the furious duo, his eyes wide and his hands trembling. Around them, the other medics and patients had stopped what they were doing to watch the standoff.

And then from behind a pair of doctors emerged General Phalco. The clones moved aside to let her step forward. Stitch and the others watched warily as she approached.

The general stopped two meters away from Krell. The two Jedi scowled at each other. And even though Krell was a whole head taller than Phalco, she still somehow managed to look him square in the eye.

"These boys are ready for action when the medics say they are," she said coldly. Krell's scowl deepened, but for once he kept his mouth shut. Encouraged by his silence, she continued; "You and I have no say in when they are in fighting shape. Remember that."

She paused and then added; "Now get the hell out of my medbay. I never want to see you in here again."

Krell opened his mouth as if to speak, but the dozens of glared directed his way apparently made him think better of it. He hesitated a moment, glowered at them all, shook his head and stormed out.

The moment that he left, the tent erupted into cheers. All the clones were hollering and laughing, some of them rushing up to congratulate Rens and Zach, some making vindictive comments about Krell, all of them absolutely ecstatic. Patients and doctors alike applauded.

Grinning from ear to ear, Stitch glanced over his shoulder at his patient. The sight he beheld warmed him to the very tips of his toes.

Lieutenant Baron was smiling.


	8. Malpractice

**A/N: So here's the thing. "Contrast" is getting too long. If I put all of it in this fic then it is going to clutter up everything and end up taking up too much space, so I'm making it into its own separate story. Parts 1-3 will remain here; part 4 and on will be posted in a separate story of the same title as the arc.**

 **Thank you.**

The groans of the injured and dying were just everyday noises on Krell's flagship. It seemed like at any one time over half of his soldiers were in the medbay, victims of burning and bashing and getting limbs blown off or faced slashed to ribbons by commando droids, souvenirs from gruesome battles in a war they didn't understand. The medical ward was constantly flooded. Many of the injuries were just too severe to be fixed. Krell's medics just couldn't keep up.

Captain Dorne wiped his forehead and checked the chrono hanging up on the wall. 2300. He'd been working in here nonstop for fourteen hours. They all should've been in bed by now. Instead they were trapped here fixing up four times the number of boys than they should've been. Just what kind of tactician thought that a casualty count this high was acceptable losses.

He gritted his teeth. _Things were never this bad in the 111th,_ he thought sourly, wiping his bloody hands on a fresh white cloth and moving on to sew up another patient. _General Dur never would have pulled something so reckless._

The medic's thoughts were interrupted by a tap on his shoulder. The captain looked up to see CT-9171, a twitchy young corporal who'd come in about a month ago, salute smartly and hold out a datapad to him.

"Sir, a report of Lieutenant Baron's status, as you requested."

Dorne accepted the 'pad with a grateful nod, allowing the corporal to scamper off as he read the report. The captain's eyebrows furrowed as he continued to read, becoming more and more troubled the longer he looked at it.

 _Took a blaster bolt to the face yesterday morning and he's already recovered enough to go back to sentry duty? That's not normal._

It wasn't the first time something like this had happened. Baron healed ridiculously fast. Dorne's predecessor, Captain CT-8552, told him of one incident where the lieutenant had had his head sliced open and three days later there was nothing more than a pale scar running along his hairline to indicate that it had ever happened.

Dorne hesitated as he reached the end of the log, his fingers hovering uncertainly over the screen. Krell had told him he wanted the medical reports filed immediately, but this… this was too much. Dorne may not have been in Riot Company long, but he already knew his commanding officer well enough to know that if Krell saw this, he'd have Baron shipped right back to the labs in a heartbeat. The medic shuddered, trying hard not to think about what kind of experiments the Kaminoans would run on the poor man trying to figure this out. Whatever mutation Baron had that triggered this, the Kaminoans were going to want to replicate it even if they had to vivisect his brain to do it. And knowing the general, Krell would help them.

Dorne couldn't let that happen.

"Bix, take over," he called to one of the other clones. Said clone looked at him curiously but relented, moving over to look at Dorne's patient as the medic turned to leave.

Out he went, tapping furiously on the data pad's screen as he went, altering details and erasing tiny bits, changing the data on the log and hoping that he did a good enough job of doctoring the results that it wouldn't be obvious that he had tweaked it. If anyone ever found out about this he'd be in serious trouble.

But as long as no one found out… what Krell didn't know wouldn't hurt him.


End file.
